


reading time with anthony janthony crowley and aziraphale ziraphale fell

by annapotterkiku, honeyedgold



Series: silly philosophy with anthony janthony crowley and aziraphale ziraphale fell (and other related persons) [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Author Commentary, Books, Canon Compliant, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Headcanon, Historical Figures, Historical References, M/M, Meta, Philosophy, Post-Canon, Reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 04:37:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20221927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annapotterkiku/pseuds/annapotterkiku, https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyedgold/pseuds/honeyedgold
Summary: littlemxtwisted asked: Hey Neil, since Crowley doesn’t “do books” per se, how’d he end up with The Extremely Big Book of Astrology? Was it, perhaps, a gift or souvenir?neil-gaiman answered: I think Crowley does books. He just doesn’t admit to it in public.





	reading time with anthony janthony crowley and aziraphale ziraphale fell

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [đọc sách cùng với anthony janthony crowley và aziraphale ziraphale fell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20181979) by [annapotterkiku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annapotterkiku/pseuds/annapotterkiku). 

> TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: 
> 
> Two translations in one day. What can I say except "you're welcome" and "Procrastination Power, Make-Up!"? 
> 
> Y'all can blame Anna for writing. I'm guiltless.

_ littlemxtwisted asked: Hey Neil, since Crowley doesn’t “do books” per se, how’d he end up with The Extremely Big Book of Astrology? Was it, perhaps, a gift or souvenir? _

_ neil-gaiman answered: I think Crowley does books. He just doesn’t admit to it in public. _

I think Crowley bought that book because it had pictures. For the memories, too, of course - so many of his masterpieces were in there. 

And Crowley? Crowley would say he doesn’t do books, because  _ he doesn’t do books.  _ Even if he had wanted to, snake eyesight is super terrible, and he can’t tell one letter from another. (In case you’re wondering: yes, that’s a cruel joke from Upstairs that Crowley didn’t work out until 1503. The one who had fallen because he asked too many questions, cursed with half-blind eyes, never being able to approach the most precious source of information - books. The Almighty does have a sense of humor.)

Well, Crowley  _ does not do books,  _ but he knows how to skirt around the rules. He was by Machiavelli’s side the entire time he was writing “The Prince”. He was the only one able to break Kant’s rigid timetable and get him to read aloud a few lines from his current essay. He trudged all the way to America for Dewey. He almost waged a war with Shakespeare over copyright. Not even Aziraphale knew Gutenberg had wanted to lend Crowley the first printed book in human history, and when he said he did not know how to read, the inventor had read to him chapter three of the Book of Genesis.

(The only author that he absolutely loathes is Wilde. Everyone knows why. He’s never read Wilde, and has sworn up and down that he won’t touch that ‘pile of penny dreadfuls’ even if it’s the End Times.)

Unlike Aziraphale, Crowley doesn’t care about the material side of books at all. That is, he doesn’t need to buy books and clutter his place with piles of them, or collect autographed first editions. What he likes is the content. There’s something about stories coalesced onto the page, the various manifestations of imagination, the desire to reach ever higher in each invention and discovery. Every single human dream, emotion, thought, blending together, relying on each other, to ascend each step on the stairway to omnipotence. Perhaps that’s what he loves the most - the ideal behind books. They are the bricks to the Tower of Babel, made of paper and ink, yet stronger and more intimidating than any structure that Heaven could raze.    


You don’t believe it? Then think; why did the Library of Alexandria burn down? 

But in general, Crowley  _ does not do books.  _ He had already told Aziraphale as much so many times. From before to after Armageddon, from the time he moved into the bookshop until they carted the entire place into a cottage on the South Downs. Every single time, the angel would simply laugh, allow him to rest his head on his thigh, and start reading aloud. It would usually be something sci-fi, because Crowley is completely fed up with philosophy, and because Aziraphale’s voice suited that genre. 

(Aziraphale was the one who read to him his first Wilde work. Crowley told himself his oath still stood - Armageddon was long over and Aziraphale was the one who touched the book. And after all, the one curled up in the angel’s lap was him and not Wilde.)

In moments like that, Crowley would always close his eyes and stay still, pretending to be asleep, because he’s Crowley and he  _ does not do books.  _ But sometimes he would sneak a peek, when Aziraphale would still be immersed in the world that he’s reading from. Under the golden lamplight, his platinum hair was much softer, his long lashes casting shadows on the plump cheeks, his sky-hued eyes focused and glinting with interest. Aziraphale’s voice is high and pure as church bells, every syllable clear and distinct. Sometimes, a half-empty glass of red wine in hand, he would even do impressions of the characters and laugh to himself, thinking his bed-mate has long fallen asleep. Then, he would be more of a narrator than a reader, sitting snugly in his chair, enchanting with the rise and fall of his tone, and Crowley would fall into the web of love that the one in his arms has cast, mesmerized, his entire being absorbing every word from the angel as if they were the Words of God.

"Dear, are you still awake?"

Aziraphale would ask when he had gotten halfway through the book, and Crowley would wait for a moment before stirring, making a soft sound in his throat as if he had just been awakened. He would blink dreamily, look up at that adorable face, give a lazy smile and say something along the line of, “Reading is boring, let’s do something else." His angel would frown in a scolding way, even when his mouth was curled up in a smile and his hand had long put the book on the bedside table. 

What had to happen happened, and this time nothing stood between them. There was no Heaven. There was no Hell. Only the two of them, as pure and natural together as fish in a stream, in the midst of their handmade Garden of Eden, enveloped in bustling human life and in each other’s embrace. 


End file.
